The Victims Game
Part Twentyone - the Disk
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS:  Hi. We've got some legal stuff to wade through before we can jump into things. Mostly the usual prerequisite jazz: ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work. For the benefit of the content-conscious amongst you, I'll assure you that there's nothing here that you couldn't see on the show, anyway. Except maybe some language, I'm not sure yet. Depends what kind of day I'm having as I write. Beyond that, I make no promises about what's in store. Could be silly, could be scary, could be sexy, could be sad. I'm not telling. Come on, live dangerously...

For those who don't know - "McGuffin": term coined by Alfred Hitchcock, I believe, referring to the central prize, or the goal of which all the characters are in pursuit. Examples: the Maltese Falcon, the briefcase in "Pulp Fiction," or just about anything Indiana Jones has ever gone after.



The police didn't make us hang around the house as long as I'd thought. Since no one had been killed, they kept us just long enough for us to tell our assorted sides of the story two or three times, and formally press charges against Rollins and Cavanaugh for assault with a deadly weapon and suspicion of Steve Wasserstein's murder. The latter got the cops' attention, and things proceeded a little more briskly after that. Sheriff Robinson was right about cops; nobody they want to arrest more than a cop-killer.

Kerry exaggerated the severity of my injuries and talked the cops into letting us go to County, while Richard stayed to answer any follow-up questions. A young patrolman drove us to the hospital in his cruiser, looking like he was itching to use the lights and siren. To his credit, he refrained.

In the ER, Kerry and I breezed in past the desk, rather than wait in the area with the plastic chairs. Things looked pretty slow, so we weren't putting out any patients. The first doctor we ran into was Robert "Rocket" Romano. My luck runs true to form.

"What the hell happened to you two?" he inquired, with a pointed lack of tact, "You get mugged on your way to the sock hop or something?"

"Mr. Fox needs someone to suture his scalp lac and check his ears for tinitis," she replied, as clinically and professionally as ever, not rising to the bait. "Do you think we have anyone available, Robert?"

He threw a poisonous glance at me, but said, "Greene's snoozing in Three, but I think we can scrape someone up for the scut work. It's just as well you're here, Kerry, there's some paperwork to be dealt with regarding your resignation."

She arched a brow. "Oh?"

"Just the usual nonsense, transfer of your 401k, that sort of thing, but the paper pushers want to get these things out of the way..."

"I'd hold up on that, Robert," Kerry said, "Things may not have been entirely resolved yet with the Board's decision."

"Oh, really?" Less than pleased.

"Yes, I have a feeling they're reconsidering. Or hadn't you heard about Dr. Doyle's, ah, guest, and his statement?"

He shrugged. "Heard something, didn't really pay attention...?"

She gave him her best polite smile. "Perhaps you should have. Hang onto the paperwork."

"I can't have it cluttering up my In Box! Where am I supposed to put it?"

Her smile never wavered as she informed him exactly where he could put it. I don't imagine he appreciated the information.

Maintaining himself with an effort, Romano conceded the point and turned to me. "Mr. Fox, good to see you again," he lied, rather obviously, "I was just recalling that our last discussion was rudely interrupted."

"True enough," I said.

He leaned a little closer and lowered his tone. "You know, any time you'd like to continue that discussion, I'd be more than happy to debate you on it." The mean little twerp was itching for a rematch. I've heard more subtle challenges from the WWWF.

I looked him straight in the eye and said, "How about we step outside right now, Rocky? I'm tired, beat up and bleeding from tackling an ex-cop with a shotgun, so who knows? In my condition, you might actually stand a chance."

He held the look a minute longer, just to save face, but it was clear he wasn't going to take me up on it. "Well, if you'll both excuse me, I've got work to do," he said, "Places to go, peons to appease, that sort of thing." And he walked off.

Kerry and I looked at each other, and shook our heads, clearly sharing an opinion of the man.

I said, "Are you still mad at me for the phone call?"

She looked at me some more, as if deciding, and then she patted my cheek gently and said, "No, Daniel, I'm not mad." Then she enlisted a nervous young med student named Lucy Knight to stitch me up. Making a point of insisting that Knight do it, personally.

If you don't mind, I'll skip over that whole experience; it's not something I care to dwell upon.

Richard and I spent the next day or so talking with Chicago Police detectives and a woman from the District Attorney's office, but most of it was straightforward and routine. Richard had been operating his stakeout from a legally rented house, and the Carter Foundation had helped him obtain a permit to carry his firearm in this state. Our actions against Rollins and Cavanaugh were quickly written off as self-defense, although I knew Richard still blamed himself for the unnecessary shooting. There was idle talk of charging us with trespassing in Amanda Lee's house, but since the only witness was, herself, a fugitive from justice, nobody really took it seriously.

Walter Montgomery's statement couldn't legally be used as evidence to implicate Rollins and Cavanaugh in the scheme against the hospital, but we still had grounds for the assault charge. Regarding Wasserstein's murder, Louis Cavanaugh made a confession from the hospital, blaming Rollins for the shooting. Rollins made a half-assed attempt to pin it on me, but his story was weak and unsupported. Nobody ever looked hard at me for it.

The authorities were never able to locate Amanda Lee, as far as I know.

Four days after the events at the house, I was basically free to return to Los Angeles, but there was one other matter to be resolved, as Richard brought to my attention. We drove to the mansion together, and he waited in another room while I went into the same study where I'd talked to Lee and Montgomery. It was better lit, this time.

I said, "It's good to meet you at last, Mrs. Carter."

"Mr. Fox," she said, shaking my hand. She didn't invite me to call her 'Millicent'.

Looking at her now, I was amazed that Amanda Lee had the gall to impersonate this woman. The authentic Millicent Carter was a stern, proud woman as gnarled and as tough as old hickory. The expertly tailored designer outfit, hundred-dollar hairstyle, and understated jewelry didn't hide the fact that this was a woman who could take charge and get things done. Either she'd see eighty very soon, or she'd never see it again.

"I appreciate your coming," she said, though it was clearly not a request. She waved me to a seat in front of her antique desk, and sat behind it. Her movements were perfectly spry, not at all infirm.

"Richard tells me there's a matter you'd like to discuss," I said, feeding her an opening.

"Indeed there is," she said, folding her hands, "Firstly, I want to apologize to you for any harm or inconvenience done to you as a result of our inaction. I'm afraid we were overly cautious, and held back far longer than we should have. The hospital should never have been threatened the way it was."

I wanted to ask if there were other people involved in her decision-making, or if she was using the Imperial "We", but it seemed rude to ask. I said, "Well, it's easy to make judgments like that with hindsight."

"Yes, it is. I am just gratified that no permanent harm was done you or the hospital staff."

"Not to us, perhaps, but there was permanent harm done," I reminded her, a little more harshly than I intended.

She took it in stride, accepting the rebuke. "You're quite correct. A man has lost his life. That is something for which I will always bear a degree of responsibility."

I shifted a little in my chair, no more comfortable now than the last time I was here. "Somehow, I don't believe that's what you've asked me here to talk about, is it, Mrs. Carter?"

"No, it is not. May we speak plainly?"

"I wish we would."

"I believe you have something that belongs to me."

There it was. The McGuffin. I said, "The disk."

She nodded. "Walter Montgomery removed it from our possession without permission. It contains information of an extremely sensitive nature, so I'm sure you can understand the importance of its return."

I shrugged. "Surely you've got other copies of your records?"

"Of course. But as a matter of principle, we don't wish to have our financial information disseminated uncontrollably..."

"No problem. Once the authorities don't need it for evidence anymore, they'll duly return it..."

"You haven't given it to the authorities?" she broke in, sharply.

Aha. Touched a nerve. "No, of course not," I said, "Forgive me, I just wanted to gauge your reaction to the idea."

Mrs. Carter darkened a little, with anger, but swallowed it smoothly. "I see. Well, Mr. Fox, I am prepared to offer you a finder's fee for the return of the disk. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate..."

I stood. "Excuse me, Mrs. Carter, but I thought we were going to speak plainly. Trying to buy me off doesn't qualify, in my book."

Her eyes narrowed, dangerously.

"Now, I haven't looked at what's on the disk, but I'm guessing it's financial information, or tax records, or something along those lines, correct?"

"Let's say you're warm."

"Okay. Now, if it's all above board and legitimate, then most of it should be a matter of public record, at least as far as the authorities are concerned. How damaging could it be?" I paused. "Unless it's not all that legit?"

The frown deepened. "Are you insinuating something?"

"No, I'm just trying to satisfy my curiosity. I don't need any specifics, I just want to hear what it was that kept you so scared of Montgomery that you couldn't step in and straighten things out when the hospital's problems began. You had to know that John was trying to get in touch with you, right?"

"Of course."

"So maybe if you'd had the guts to get involved, we wouldn't have had to go through all this, and you wouldn't have to bear that degree of responsibility for a man's loss of life. Any thoughts?"

The old woman stiffened visibly. I doubted she was spoken to like this very often. "Will you accept my statement that I have far more to protect than you realize, Mr. Fox?"

"Sure. I just question whether it's worth protecting."

She leaned forward. "Anything said in here stays in here, is that understood?"

"Sure."

"How do I know your word is good for that?"

Good point. "You've got two people who'll vouch for me."

"Who are they?"

"One is your grandson, John."

Her expression softened at his name, but only for a moment. "I wouldn't lean too heavily on his endorsement. John has integrity and idealism, it's true, but he's never had good judgment about when or where to apply them. I had hoped that he would apply them to the task of guiding the Foundation's future, but he's insisted on a medical career. I don't suppose I can fault him for that." She shook her head. "John wouldn't lie to me about you, but that doesn't mean his faith in your honesty isn't misplaced. Who else?"

I nodded toward the door. "Richard Wintergreen."

She thought about that, then nodded.

Millicent Carter stood up from her chair, came out from behind her desk, and began to pace slowly around the room, now in full speechmaking mode. "The Carter Foundation's history is far from spotless," she began, "From Spanish Privateers in the previous century to labor racketeering in this one, our acts of charity and goodwill have been funded by the evils that men do..."

"The family fortune's dirty," I broke in, deliberately.

She fired a steely look at me, miffed that I had interrupted her practiced speech. "Not entirely, but yeah, sonny, it is." The Poised Matriarch gives way to the Tough Old Broad. "You go ahead and stand there and feel superior if you like. You've got no idea what it's like marrying into a family with decades of guilt accumulated."

Ooh, very Diane Keaton, 'the Godfather'. I said, "Look, Mrs. Carter, I honestly don't care what the Foundation's into. You could be running call girls out of your summer homes, for all I care, or selling nuclear secrets to the Iraqis..."

"There's nothing like that!"

"I just said, I don't care. I'm not a big-picture guy-"

"No, you listen to me, you self-righteous little bastard!" she snapped, livid, "Since I took over the Foundation, I've done everything I could to ensure that our business is run legally, and to contribute to the public benefit, in an attempt to atone for the sins of my husband's predecessors. I've given to causes that make Carol Hathaway's clinic look like a brothel by comparison."

I believed her. Richard Wintergreen wouldn't show her the level of loyalty he'd displayed unless he really believed that she was working toward the good, no matter how much she paid him.

"I was wrong this time, is that what you want to hear?" she snapped, "I left Montgomery in place far too long, and I didn't take the kind of direct action against him that you would have. I don't have that luxury!"

Any wonder John Carter didn't want to go into the family business?

"This family's past is shameful, to say the least, but its present is as pure and honorable as I can possibly make it. Its future, I believe, is something to be proud of. But if that is undermined now, it all goes away. Is that what you want?"

"No, it's not. I just wanted to hear your side of things, and for you to admit you were wrong. Now I'm satisfied."

"I'm delighted to hear it," she hissed, then settled back into her negotiation face. "Then that leads us back to the matter of the disk. Will you return it to us?"

"And collect your more-than-adequate 'finder's fee'?"

"Yes."

"And walk away and keep my mouth shut?"

"Yes."

"It's a generous offer, I'm sure, but I'm afraid I can't accept it."

A purely deadly look, now. "I hope you're not thinking of trying to blackmail me, Mr. Fox. Even if you were to go public with the disk, I could still cause you a world of hurt..."

"No, I'm content to remain silent. I meant that I don't have the disk anymore."

That took her back a step. "You said you didn't give it to the authorities..."

"I didn't. I gave it to John."

She paled.

I shrugged. "Had his name on it, after all."

I had pondered the disposal of the disk for a couple of days, powerfully aware of its significance. A part of me was enjoying the feeling of power it gave me. But the rest of me didn't like that part very much. Reminded me too much of Bob and Patricia's videotape. Finally, I had made the choice to pass the responsibility on to someone in a better position to decide what to do with it. Besides, McGuffins just aren't what they used to be, now that everything has gone hi-tech.

Millicent was quiet, a faraway look in her eyes as if she were trying to tally up how big the problem was.

I said, "If I were you, I'd talk to your grandson. Be honest with him, tell him what you told me. Put a little faith in that integrity and idealism. I think you'll be surprised about how good his judgment can be."

She came back to me, composed again. "I'll consider it, Mr. Fox. Of course, if you are not longer in possession of the disk, then I believe that brings our business to an end."

I nodded, and she walked me to the door. I gave her a little Peter Falk and said, "Oh, actually, there is one other thing...."

"Yes?" Polite, but wary.

"Walter Montgomery was supposed to settle my hotel bill, and since he's no longer in a position to do that...?"

"Don't push your luck, chum."

"Gotcha." I walked out of the study.

Richard Wintergreen met me in the long hallway. "All is well?" he inquired.

"Corn's as high as an elephant's eye," I replied, "but there's a bright golden haze on the meadow."

He nodded, satisfied.

I said to him, "Richard, tell me this. Knowing what you almost certainly do about the Foundation, you really think its past should stay buried?"

"It's often best to let sleeping dogs lie," he answered.

"No, come on. No clichés, I need your honest opinion."

He faced me. "Daniel, lad, the sad truth of the world is that democracies are built upon the slaughter of innocents. All through history, freedom has been purchased with blood. With acts that should never have been committed, but which cannot be undone."

I hate these 'greater good' arguments, and Richard knows it. There's no way to win them.

He saw my reaction, and added, "Ignore that, then, and concentrate on this: you've made it possible for good people to continue doing good work. Keep sight of that, and all else is mere sophistry."

I wished I could say that it was enough. It seemed a minor victory, when compared to the continual battle that Kerry Weaver and Mark Greene and the others fought with organic entropy. They waged it every day, knowing full well that each success is no more than a delaying action, that they will always eventually lose. But they keep fighting. While I sit in my office in LA with the movie posters and the inflatable Godzilla and keep myself amused.

But Richard, as always, was right. If nothing else, I had removed one of the obstacles in their fight, and allowed them to fight another day. Some days, my job lets me do things like that.

It ain't much. But it's something.